Open Writing

Perhaps it will sound at odds with the libertine lifestyle I’d been
enjoying in Nairobi. With Amina I felt in the company of someone
for whom I’d give up everything and do anything. Leaving her fabulous
looks to one side, I found her to be thoughtful, kind, and exceptionally
well educated, having undertaken most of her schooling in
Rome. Her command of English and Italian was perfect – not that I
could test the latter. I was, and remain a linguistic nincompoop, apart
from my much vaunted talent for Swahili. Whatever, I felt privileged
and delighted to be in a position to spend time with her. Hassan had
authorised half a day’s leave so Amina was able to devote all of Friday
(which was early closing) and some of the weekend to whirling
me around the sights, such as they were.

I learned her father was a northern Isaaq clan family member but
had made his fortune ‘among strangers’ as a merchant in Mogadishu
in the days before Siad Barre’s coup d’etat. Amina regaled me with
stories of her privileged childhood. It had been a happy upbringing
with five younger siblings racing around their large shoreline home,
built in the Arab style, having an inner courtyard designed to keep
the worst of the day’s heat at bay. There were upstairs terraces with
castle-like ramparts from which the children would watch the comings
and goings of dhows and larger cargo ships. It was a lively
home, Amina said, graced by a constant stream of visitors: aunties,
uncles, friends of her parents, school chums, and a succession of
business people, some of whom brought exciting presents.

‘Sounds like you had an idyllic time of it. Did it seem like paradise?’
I asked.

‘Yes, of course. However things are not always as they seem. Living
on the coast had its perils. As children there had been the obvious
temptation to run wild on the beach. One terrible day my best
friend, at only twelve years of age, was swept away and drowned.
The currents off our coast are very dangerous.’
Thereafter, Mr Abdullahi had insisted that beach trips were only
allowed under supervision. And he wisely instilled a healthy respect
for what was in the water. Indeed to demonstrate his point one day
he had taken all of his children to the little harbour where local fishermen
landed their catches. Amina said she maintained a vivid memory
of the occasion. There, suspended from a grappling hook in the
boat shed, was a Great White nearly five metres in length. She had
been fascinated by this lifeless apex predator, running her fingers
over and over its robust conical shaped snout. She felt the roughness
of its skin and when peering into its gaping mouth was amazed to
see row after row of razor sharp serrated teeth.

‘That is how they tear you up into little pieces and eat you,’ her
father had warned. ‘So now you know what will happen if you go
swimming in the sea!’

At this they had all screamed in delight and run away from the
carcass.

I developed a ready appetite for her stories. It felt as if I was
drinking in Amina’s past, absorbing all that I could in the brief time
available. She’d gently scalded the extent of my eager questions
which must have seemed like a torrent, and demanded in return that
I tell her something of my own culture. Lost for words, I touched on
tartan and how it was derived; I quoted Robbie Burns and mentioned
that Scotsmen wore nothing under their kilts. She screamed
with mirth, providing enough distraction for me to return my attention
to her.

***

Just before mid-day on Saturday, Amina had invited me to walk
through the old quarter of town, a circuitous route on my promised
outing to Bakara Market. As we strolled along admiring some of the
ancient but run down architecture, including rows of Arab merchant
houses, I commented on a stream of people beginning to rush past
us in the opposite direction – men, women and children. They had
appeared very suddenly. Within a few minutes their numbers had
grown into a crowd so numerous that we had to skip into a doorway
to let everyone past. It was like the start of a London marathon or
hoards of football supporters heading towards the stadium. We
stood there for perhaps twenty minutes. People were pouring out of
houses and converging from every street corner. There was an atmosphere
of carnival.

‘Where are they going?’

‘I don’t think you’ll want to hear about it,’ Amina replied with unusual
coyness.

‘Why? Everyone looks pretty excited, wherever it is.’

‘Let’s try to go for some lunch,’ Amina pleaded. It was obvious
she was avoiding my question.

‘Okay. Lunch it is. But not until you tell me what’s going on. It
might be fun.’

‘It is a hanging. Someone is going to lose his life. Maybe more
than one person. It happens a lot. The President has decreed that
executions should take place in public. So they do it on the beach
where there is a permanent gallows. Hangings are a spectator sport
in Mogadishu. People take food and drink. And they cheer when the
rope is pulled tight.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. That’s awful. Are they murderers or
something?’

‘Or robbers. Or maybe political prisoners. No one really knows
what they have done. They just bring them out and kill them. I don’t
really want to talk about it. It upsets me.’

I had no desire either to watch a man die. Instead, and to perish
the thought, we speculated, tongue in cheek, about how we would
run the country if we were in charge. We made up ridiculous policies
as we strolled along. ‘Free bread for all,’ I suggested unimaginatively.

‘A wealth tax to help finance health care,’ Amina offered. ‘Okay,’
said I, ‘and an armed patrol boat to sink Russian and Korean supertrawlers.’

Amina laughed. ‘Yes, that’s a problem that needs solving. My Uncle
Jama owns a fishing boat. Each year he catches fewer fish, and
those that he does are smaller. We are powerless to stop other countries
helping themselves to stocks around our coast. It’s like stealing
money from little children.’

For a moment I saw a touch of sadness in her lovely eyes while
possibly she reflected on the injustices of the world. Then she sparkled
again, pointing into the distance.

‘Do you see that red building next to the mosque. Okay, look to
the left. Now go to the gravel road; run your eye about five hundred
metres along the shore line. What do you see now?’

‘Err. Looks like somebody’s mansion.’

‘No it’s not,’ she said with mock indignity. ‘That is where I live
with my family.’ She was skipping up and down like a little child with
the delight of conveying this information.

‘Well Amina, you must feel very lucky. It looks a wonderful place.’

‘It is Stewart. We love it so much.’

***

With each passing moment and as that precious weekend progressed
all too quickly, I adored her more and more. She was infectious.
Consciously or not, I elevated her to a plane far above that of
any other woman I’d met. We seemed to get on so well in spite of a
decade in years between us.

We danced around the topic of relationships. I was able to glean
that she was unmarried, and mentioned I was separated from Beverly.

Yet because of the respect I felt for her, indeed near reverence,
there was no way I could deploy my habitually coarse chat-up lines
or sexual innuendo. We would ruminate about the parlous state of
the Somali economy or the country’s future under the Barre regime.

Such topics were ‘safe’ if spoken out of earshot of others, but they
were hardly satisfying. I wanted to absorb every microscopic piece of
information about this woman. And I ached to touch her. Yet I
couldn’t bring myself to do so for fear of causing offense, or of doing
something which was alien to her culture.

To be continued next Monday.